Lifting the Veil
by dogstar-ebony
Summary: -"I wasn’t the only one who could see the Thestrals right from the beginning." When Mrs Lovegood died she changed the lives of her husband and daughter in more ways than one. Oneshot, RR.


**Lifting The Veil**

I wasn't the only one who could see the Thestrals right from the beginning.

Marisa could too. Not that she ever admitted it, but I knew as soon as I saw her reaction. The way her eyes widened as she took in the sight of the odd-looking creatures, the way her mouth was laced into a tight line as she realised no one else could see them. She was afraid. That's something else Marisa will never admit to, but it's true. She insists I was afraid too but I know that's just her way of getting back at me. I wasn't afraid. I was too happy to think of being afraid. It sounds ridiculous but the taut muscles of their sinewy necks reminded me of the soft curve of your neck. The smooth, rippling black of their flesh just made me remember the way your hair falls to the base of your spine, as sleek and as straight as a raven's wing, and it made me want to stroke it. So I stretched out my hand, and I touched the horse's muzzle, feeling its hot breath melting on my cool skin, and when I looked into its milky eyes I could have sworn I saw your face there. I didn't stop to think that no one else could see my new friend. I didn't stop to think that maybe people would think it was weird that I was stroking what looked like thin air.

I didn't give up either. Marisa said I should – she kept on and on telling me to forget about the strange horses, that no one wanted to hear about it, and it's true that no one did. I kept talking about them to the point that people stopped casting frightened looks in my direction and started to avoid me. The only person who talked to me was Marisa, and this only drew more confused and jeering stares. In the corridors if they brushed past me one or two of them would wipe their sleeves furiously, as though eccentricity was contagious and dirty, as though believing in the ridiculous was scarring.

Daddy is the reason I believe in the fantastic. Daddy is the one who told me that when your ears burn suddenly bright and hot it's because you were just stung by a Whopcrutch and you have to drink six spoonfuls of honey so that it won't come back. Daddy is the one who told me that Nargles infest mistletoe and that sleeping with your arms across your heart can ward off the attack of a Lethifold and the wearing carrot earrings is the best way to repel Jarveys. Daddy is also the one who told me about the veil.

He didn't start telling me any of this until you died, and even when he did I could tell he didn't really believe any of it himself. He insisted he did, he insisted it was true, but every time I looked into his eyes I saw the lie branded there: I watched him clutch at the space where his heart used to be with every fresh tale he spun and I knew he would have given up every fancy in the world for you to come back. I think that's why he did it. After all, if we believed in stupid things like Crumple-Horned Snorcacks then maybe it wasn't so ridiculous to believe you were coming back. Above all else I think he wanted me to believe I'd see you again, even if he didn't himself.

Daddy is also the one who saw Marisa first. I swallowed every story he told me, even though I didn't believe in them, but when he told me he had seen a little girl with treacle-coloured hair I told him outright that he was lying. He insisted she wanted to be friends, and why couldn't I see her when she was so real? And then, slowly, I began to see her too. Every time I thought of you and the soft damask smell of you, every time I felt the pulse of my heart thud painfully against my thin ribs, the image of Marisa grew a little clearer, bit by bit, until she was every bit as real as Daddy wanted me to believe she was.

Daddy told me all of these things, every single day, and the one story he told me over and over, making me recite it until the words were blazoned across the flat canvas of my mind and I sang them in my sleep, was that one day I would find you again. He refused even to believe you had died; he insisted you were 'just behind a curtain, Luna, and someday you'll lift it." And I made myself believe his words, because the balmy comfort of them, the solidity of the lie, tasted smoother on my tongue than the truth that jutted awkwardly into the soft flesh of my mouth.

I was thirteen when I heard the whispering for the first time. Marisa tried to tell me it was just summer's breath that lifted the curtains of our living room, but I knew it was you, because how could the wind have sung my name in the same clear voice that belongs to you? I think that's when I started to truly believe all the things Daddy told me, because if he was right about the veil then what was there to say he was wrong about everything else he told me?

**Author's Note:**

**This was one of those little ficlets that grabbed hold of me and insisted I write it. I've never found a Luna fic (not one that didn't shove her with Neville – which is clearly WRONG in my humble opinion – at least) and decided to write one. In case it's unclear this is meant to be her talking to her mother, and was originally going to be her POV the day she died, but I'm going to make that another fic now instead. Like this? Don't forget to let me know!!**


End file.
